


Confessions Are Ships That Sail Through The Night.

by Gevar



Series: An Anthology of Whimsical Musings. [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 22:18:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15398724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gevar/pseuds/Gevar
Summary: “I love you,” he confesses.





	Confessions Are Ships That Sail Through The Night.

“I love you,” he confesses.

He’s not staring at her, when his confession lingers in the air. His back pressed against the armchair’s leg. His long legs crossed over the floor. His head tilt upwards, so it’s the ceiling fan looking down on him.  

She laughs huskily, incredulous carved into tired tone. “No, you don’t. You just _think_ you do,” she admonishes. Like she knows his heart better than he does. And ‘—because I’m carrying your child,’ sits unspoken at the edge of her tongue. Yet they hear its ghostly presence sinking in between them.

“You _love_ Svetlana. She’s your fiancée,” she corrects him, and her voice cracks a little at the letter ‘S’, with a smile that feels too forced to be genuine.

Turning his head to her, Marshall can see through hazy vision and slurring speech—her expression is anything but conviction in her own words.

He hasn’t think of Svetlana as the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with. It hasn’t been that way in months. Not since he shed his name as Marshall Flint and took Marcus Van Zandt, the newest addition to the resistance. Not since he charmed his way through the resistance, into her bed. Definitely, not since they’re huddled together, sweaty and dirt-stained, and death staring at their faces in the middle of nowhere. Life in the resistance has changed him too much—even if he still wears the stripes of marine on his shoulders.

So he bites down another confession. There is little use in trying to confess to denying ears, a listener who likes her lies better than his truth.

“Marshall, it’s _not_ love,” she replies, nonchalant. So flippant. He could almost buy it.

“I get it why they sent you to my cell. You and I have _history_ together. Those few salacious albeit embarrassing one night stands _together_ in the barracks,” her lips curling to a smile, less strained than before—he thinks, there’s a spark of mischief in those hazel eyes.

She shrugs, “Why not milk that connection? I know I would.”

Mitchell tucks a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. Wavy ebony hair getting longer than he’s used to seeing her with. She leans into the armchair, one hand flicking carelessly through the pages of a Star Trek magazine that she claims isn’t hers.

He knows that her denial is an armour worn to protect her heart and keeps her soul from breaking into fragments. After all, he held the hammer that crushed her fragile heart. One time too plenty.

He’s half toying with the idea of kissing her would convince her of his love. Then again, a kiss might give away this desperation eroding his resolve to keep their friendship platonic—or to be honest, his love for Svetlana.

Even if he manages—he doubts she’ll allow him to touch her lips, without her permission. Mitchell Flynn has always been able to kick his six-four ass. He still hasn’t recovered from her kick to his chest a week ago.

The moment that warrants a kiss passes without a protest. Like a kite flying peacefully underneath the sea breeze. He makes a non-committal noise. Drains the bottle empty, savouring the bitter taste of wasted opportunities.

“Still think you’re in love with me?” she says in acerbic jest, scouting for his answer. She tosses a brief glance at him. With disapproving lips and eyes too earnest to lie how badly she wants his answer.

“Mitch,” he says, wrinkling his nose. And unfolds his long gangly legs from underneath him.

He could lie, put on that charming exasperated smirk only she could enjoy. Tell her the things she wants to hear. The confirmation of his confession is just a joke. But he doesn’t.

“You talk too much,” is what he says, slurring his words like a drunk person would do. The ends of his lips curving into a lop-sided grin. With a touch of mild exasperation on that grin. Another sip of whiskey burns his throat.

She rolls her eyes. And retorts, “As if.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches her shaking her head sideways. Disappointment dancing on her eyebrows so subtle. The night is whimsically emotional for two ridiculously mismatched couple.  

“I forgot you’re in love with the sound of your voice,” she retorts mockingly, but he could pick up the hints of affection bleeding into those words. 

“I happened to be an excellent trombonist,” he counters, then he lets out a burp. On purpose, of course.

“Gross,” she groans. And laughs. “Barbaric.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m more of a gentleman than the men you were hanging out in the resistance. Now, those are barbarians,” he moans, places one hand over his heart. 

“Maybe,” she says coolly, stretching her arms. Mitchell yawns. “It’s getting late. I still have to work tomorrow.” She gets to her feet. Eyes him, hands on hips like a frowning hospital matron.

He stands up from the floor. Brushes dusts and cat hairs from his jeans. Marshall fishes out his keys from his pockets. He mutters, “You’re still working at the library?”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” Mitchell bluntly scoffs, “It’s either the library or the restaurant down by Suzanne’s clinic. I’m not going to stand on my feet all day long, washing dirty dishes.”

“There’s always a spot for you in the agency,” he offers, dumping the empty whiskey bottles into the trash. “Troy really wishes you would join us. She could use a little boost in the oestrogen department.”

Mitchell crosses her arms, the corners of her lips quirking into an amused smile. “Thanks for the offer, but I have enough of working for law enforcement to last a lifetime.”

He fumbles with his phone and keys, squinting at his watch. The digits look smudged. He rubs his eyes twice. Maybe he did drink too much. Slipping into leather boots, he stagers his way to the door, attempts to twist the doorknob.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mitchell voices. She clucks her tongue. Again, with that disapproval knitting her brows together. There’s a part of him, the part that is idiotically in love with Mitchell Flynn, finds her expression intoxicatingly graceful. Elegant even.

“Home,” Marshall states flatly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the room. He gestures absentmindedly at the knob. His index finger dangles the car keys.  

“You’re too drunk to drive anywhere or even walk home,” she sighs, partly fatigued and half-distracted. Her slim fingers brushing against his wrist, clasping it. Gently leading him away from the door, towards the sofa’s direction. 

He plops unceremoniously on a sofa that’s far too small to accommodate his full height. Takes his boots off. Marshall positions himself comfortably on the sofa. His legs hanging over the sofa’s arms.

She disappears into her room, footsteps light on the mahogany floorboard. Mitchell reappears with a pillow and blanket tucked under her arms. She sets the strawberry-scented—her favourite—pillow underneath his head. Drapes the blanket over him. Brushes his bangs away from touching his eyes. He hears her feet echoing on the floorboard. A door and its squeaky hinges creak.

He swears there’s a finger tracing lightly over his cheek. Mitchell is not sitting anywhere at the sofa. That could be the _alcohol_ working illusions into him now. She’s standing over him, arms folded over her chest. 

Because the night’s too wasteful to end with both of their hearts broken by denial and rejection. He knows that she thinks he wouldn’t remember this conversation of hearts by the coming of dawn. Two bottles of whiskey have a way of scrambling his memories. But you don’t easily delete an honest-to-God love confession made in the altar of midnight vulnerability and alcohol from your memories.

So he plays along. Pretending his confession is only a figment of their imagination. Returns the status quo thrown off balance by his careless declaration of love.

Squinting his eyes at her, Marshall calls out, “What? No good night kiss?” His lips twitch into a lopsided smirk.

Mitchell grins. One of those rare mischievous grins she isn’t fond of showing to anyone. And then rolls her eyes. “Don’t vomit on the carpet. Even I wouldn’t want to deal with Suzanne’s wrath.” 

“Night, Mitch.”

By the light glinting off her sharp cheekbones, her eyes soften at him. He thinks, it might take a while before he could try his hand courting her. He needs that long talk with Svetlana first.

“Are you seriously going to stand over me all night?” Marshall teases, “I won’t run away, I promise.”

She ignores his comment. “Go to sleep, Marsh.”


End file.
